True Tilda eBook

“I’ve got to account to ’Ucks, if
that’s what you mean,” Sam assented.

“The bill, Smiles, is the theatrical agent’s
first thought; the beginning which is notoriously
half the battle. For three-inch lettering—­and
to that I restricted myself—­five shillings
can only be called dirt cheap. Listen—­”

PROFESSOR AND MADAME
ST. MAUR,
OF THE LEADING LONDON THEATRES

PART I.—­WITH VOICE AND LUTE, A POT-POURRI
PART II.—­AN HOUR WITH THE BEST DRAMATISTS

“You bet it isn’t, at Tizzer’s Green.
Well, the first job is breakfast, an’ after
breakfast we’ll get Old Jubilee round by the
footbridge an’ make shift to borrow a cart down
at Ibbetson’s, for the scenery. You didn’
forget the bacon?”

Mr. Mortimer unwrapped a parcel of greasy paper and
exhibited six slices.

“A Baconian—­O, Shakespeare, forgive!”
He said this in a highly jocular manner, and accompanied
it with a wink at Tilda, who did not understand the
allusion. But again she felt the child’s
hand thrill and tremble, and turned about, eyeing
him curiously. Her movement drew upon him the
Mortimerian flow, ever ebullient and ever by trifles
easily deflected.

“Yes, Arthur Miles—­if I may trouble
you to pass it down to the cook’s galley—­thank
you; these eggs too—­be careful of them—­Yes,
we are bound for Stratford-on-Avon, Shakespeare’s
birthplace!” Again he lifted and replaced his
hat. “Enviable boy! What would young
Stanislas Mortimer not have given at your age to set
eyes on that Mecca! Yet, perchance, he may claim
that he comes, though late, as no unworthy votary.
A Passionate Pilgrim, shall we say? Believe me,
it is in the light of a pilgrimage that I regard this—­er—­jaunt.
Shall we dedicate it to youth, and name it Childe
Arthur’s Pilgrimage?”

By this time smoke was issuing in a steady stream
from the stove-pipe above the cabin-top, and presently
from within came the hiss and fragrance of bacon frying.
Sam Bossom had stepped ashore, and called to the
children to help in collecting sticks and build a fire
for the tea-kettle. Tilda, used though she was
to nomad life, had never known so delightful a picnic.
Only her eyes wandered back apprehensively, now and
then, to the smoke of the great town. As for
Arthur Miles—­Childe Arthur, as Mr. Mortimer
henceforth insisted on their calling him—­he
had apparently cast away all dread of pursuit.
Once, inhaling the smell of the wood fire, he even